


Hollow

by warqueenfuriosa



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Blood, Community: hc_bingo, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7306735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warqueenfuriosa/pseuds/warqueenfuriosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris struggles in the aftermath of the fire and Buck is there to pull him back from the brink. Written for hc_bingo prompt: self-harm.</p><p>**Trigger warning: Rated teen and up for discussion of self-harm**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow

Chris didn’t talk to anyone for four weeks. Not one soul. He stayed under a tree close to the blackened remains of the house, the sharp smell of smoke still lingering in the air. The occasional visitor would drop by, attempt to pay their condolences, get him to eat something, coax him out of the blazing sun or the icy cold rains. He didn’t pay attention to who it was, didn’t even remember their faces when they turned away and left him alone again. All he knew was that they were greeted with the business end of his gun and no one dared to push any further.

Except Buck. Damn him.

When Buck rode up at the start of that fifth week, he didn’t even flinch when Chris drew on him.

“Get off my property,” Chris growled, each word cut short and gleaming with razor sharp edges.

Buck slid off his horse and took a step closer, his jaw set tight. “No,” he said, matching Chris’ growl. “You been out here too damn long as it is.”

Chris drew the hammer back. Buck didn’t move.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Buck said, his voice lower, softer this time. He took another step closer until the muzzle of Chris’ gun lined up directly with his heart. It would hurt less, if Chris pulled that trigger, fired right into his chest, rather than to stand here and look into the eyes of his best friend, eyes that didn’t see him, looked right through him, like he wasn’t here, like Chris wasn’t here either.

“Chris,” Buck whispered.

Finally, _finally_ Chris’ gaze slid up just a fraction of an inch to meet Buck’s eyes, and a flash of recognition took hold. Buck had tried to give Chris space, tried to let him grieve on his own time. But after a week and Chris hadn’t moved, hadn’t accepted anyone’s help, Buck knew he had to do something. Every day, week after week, he visited Chris and Chris never saw him, just treated him like another unwelcome visitor.

But now…that brief look was the first sliver of awareness Buck had seen in Chris’ face in twenty-nine days.

“I won’t leave them,” Chris said, his voice ragged and rough, like it had to be torn from his throat.

“I’m not askin’ you to,” Buck replied. “Let me stay. Just one night.”

Chris’ gaze slid to the side, past Buck again, and Buck’s stomach lurched. No, no, no, he thought, not again.

But Chris was looking at his house – the remains of it – black stumps like broken teeth jabbing at the sky.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. All Buck wanted to do was drag Chris to the nearest town, get him a decent meal, some clean clothes, a bath, and he didn’t care if Chris killed him for it. He wanted Chris back, damn it, not this shell of a man empty with grief.

In the end, Buck said nothing, though it took every ounce of his self-control to do so. It was up to Chris now, to let Buck in or fight him. Again. And if Chris wanted a fight…well Buck was more than ready for that too.

A fine, delicate rain began to drift down on them, whispering through the grass, the only sound to break the silence. Buck didn’t move, didn’t sigh, didn’t let his gaze waver from Chris.

Chris didn’t look at him. But he lowered his gun, shoved it back in its holster, and turned away. Chris settled on the ground beneath the tree, his gaze trained on the house and the modest graves next to it. And that was answer enough for Buck. At least he wasn’t being driven away.

Buck tied his horse next to Chris’, pulled off his saddle, and sat next to Chris with the rain drip, drip, dripping from the leaves above them. Buck didn’t try to make a fire, although he wanted to. He didn’t try to get Chris to eat something, although judging by the stack of empty bottles keeping him company, he could no doubt use a scrap of real food. He simply sat with Chris. It would have to do for now.

Sometime after dark, Buck drifted off to sleep, his coat collar turned up against the cold rain, his hat tucked low over his face, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms folded across his chest. Chris continued to drown himself in bottle after bottle. At some point, the alcohol had to make everything numb, had to make things hurt less. And he wasn’t going to stop until he reached that blessed point.

He finished off the bottle he had been nursing for the past hour or so, let it slide to the ground and it hit harder than he’d intended, shattered in half. He reached for another bottle and the glass was slick, warm.

Slowly, hazily, Chris looked down at his hand. Red streaks stained his fingers, long and ribbon-like. But he felt no pain. His fingers were shredded, sliced to pieces by that broken glass, and he felt nothing.

Finally.

He picked up the broken bottle and the jagged edges pressed so easily into his skin, like a hot knife through butter. Still, no pain. But the blood was rising, flowing down his arm now as he held his hand up. It almost felt…good. It felt _right_. This is what he deserved, for not being able to protect them. That was his job, they depended on him…and he wasn’t there when they needed him most.

Buck stirred next to him, slid further down the tree he was leaning against then shook himself awake and rubbed a hand over his face. His gaze fell on Chris and for a moment, he didn’t believe what he saw, too shocked to move.

Then he snapped into action, grabbed Chris’ hand and shoved the broken bottle away.

“Chris, what are you…?”

Chris raised his gaze to meet Buck’s. “Don’t feel a damn thing,” he said, his voice small and distant and soft around the edges.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Buck breathed. He clasped his other hand behind Chris’ neck and pulled him closer until their foreheads were touching. “Chris, you’re scarin’ the hell outta me here, buddy.”

Chris screwed his eyes shut. “Still hurts. It…won’t stop.”

Buck kept his grip on Chris’ hand and fished a shirt out of his saddlebags. He bunched it up, pressed it against Chris’ bleeding fingers and held on tight.

“Sarah and Adam don’t want this for you, Chris,” Buck said, his voice low and hoarse. “I know you miss ‘em, I do too, but they wouldn’t want you doin’ this.”

Chris kept his head bowed, his gaze on the red blossom growing across Buck’s shirt, waiting for the pain in his fingers to set in so he could focus on something other than the suffocating weight in his chest. In all these weeks, no one had said their names. No one had dared to mention the family he’d lost. It felt like a jolt of cold water sliding over his skin, and that hollowness deep inside him, like a gaping mouth, screamed even louder.

“I should have…” he started, but Buck was there again, looking him right in the eye.

“Don’t,” Buck said. “Don’t do that. Don’t go down that road. This wasn’t your fault. None of it.”

“I was supposed to protect them and I…”

Buck’s grip on Chris’ bleeding hand went so tight that Chris gritted his teeth. There. There was that pain that he wanted – craved – to feel.

“Live for them, Chris,” Buck said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But not like this.”

Chris let his gaze drop to his hand again and Buck didn’t say anything more for the rest of the night, just kept pressing that shirt against Chris’ fingers. When the first golden spray of light spilled through the trees, neither of them moved. Buck peeled an edge of the shirt back tentatively. The bleeding had slowed but he’d need stitches and that was going to create a problem all its own.

“Chris…” Buck started, so quiet in the silence surrounding them.

“I know,” Chris replied. He pulled his hand away and started packing up his things, saddling his horse.

Buck stood, wary of the ease that Chris had so readily cooperated. He’d been fully prepared to knock Chris out to get him to the nearest doctor if necessary.

But within only a few minutes, both Buck and Chris were saddled, riding away from the little ranch, the ruins of Chris’ life.

After a while, Chris unwrapped his hand and stared at the cuts across his palm, marching so steadily towards his wrist.

Then he wrapped his hand up again and lifted his gaze to the horizon. The echoing ache still thundered against his ribs like a second heartbeat, a chant whispering their names.

_Sarah._

_Adam._

_Sarah._

_Adam._

And he never looked back. For them.


End file.
